The Girl in White
by dark-hearted rose
Summary: Oneshot. A little something in the mysterious girl's POV, inspired by Ambrose Bierce's short story 'Beyond the Wall'.


**A short piece in the mysterious girl's POV, inspired by Ambrose Bierce's short story "Beyond the Wall".**

**disclaimer: I own nothing, especially the dialogue between Dampier and the other man, which I took straight from the text.**

* * *

The wind was howling with terrible force outside as I observed the stranger exit the cab and walk quickly up the long drive of the house. The few trees on the lawn swayed back and forth with the gusts, the rain pelting all who found themselves to be without shelter—all except me, of course.

I was dead. A grave illness had taken me in my prime, and now, nearly ten years later, I could not feel the wind nor the rain, but only a deep discontent in the depths of my spirit.

The stranger sprinted the rest of the way to the door, pausing for a moment—I could only assume it was to catch his breath—and opened the door, entering the house.

Now alone, I glided up to the tower window, hovering by the panes and watching. The man to which the house belonged—Mohun Dampier—was sitting disconsolately in his large armchair, smoking a cigar, watching the hypnotic dance of the flames in the fireplace. He was as pale as ever, his graying hair swept back away from his face, his lovely blue eyes large and seemingly unfocused. He stood suddenly, as if hearing something, then strode to the door of the tower room in his robe and slippers, opening it wider and ushering inside the stranger who had come to call.

They sat for a while in conversation, the stranger with his back to me. Growing tired of watching the two of them, I glided past the window and gently tapped the wall three times.

I could not hear their conversation on account of the storm still raging outside, but I had expected a reply by now. I tapped again, with the same insistence, before returning to my self-appointed post by the window.

Dampier was now standing, the stranger a few paces behind him. He walked to the window and opened it, saying, "See."

The stranger looked skeptical as he gingerly poked his head out of the opening to look around him at the storm. He was staring right at me, but failed to see me, and soon the window was shut once more.

Curious, I decided to enter the room, gliding straight through the wall on which I had previously tapped and settling in a far corner. The stranger was speaking.

"My good friend," he said, "I am not disposed to question your right to harbor as many spooks as you find agreeable to your taste and consistent with your notions of companionship; that is no business of mine. But being just a plain man of affairs, mostly of this world, I find spooks needless to my peace and comfort. I am going to my hotel, where my fellow-guests are still in the flesh."

The nerve of this man to say such things! How _dare_ he flaunt the fact that he was still alive, and able to do such things as he wished!

But Dampier did not react as I did. "Kindly remain. I am grateful for your presence here. What you have heard to-night I believe myself to have heard twice before. Now I _know_ it was no illusion. That is much to me—more than you know. Have a fresh cigar and a good stock of patience while I tell you the story."

Ah. So, he was going to relate my story.

Dampier began the narrative, but I lost interest, my thoughts flying to the same morning he was now speaking of. It was such a lovely June day, and I could not resist going for a walk in the garden that separated the complexes of the apartment. I was dressed in white, my dark hair blowing in the warm breeze I knew to be straight from the Bay, snatching my favorite hat with the flowers from my head; luckily there was a string attached, so it merely hung from my shoulders instead of blowing away.

It was then I believe he first saw me. I could feel his presence a little ways off behind me, and I turned around to face him, my dark eyes meeting his.

He had removed his hat, almost as if he were paying some sort of tribute to me. Looking once more at him, I left the garden and entered the small apartment I shared with my elderly aunt.

I tried to make light of the situation, but I couldn't get the sight of him out of my head. How handsome he was! That night I lay in bed, tossing and turning, trying to forget, but secretly willing myself not to. He was an aristocrat—I had gleaned that much from our chatty landlady—but I was not. I had been orphaned as a young child, and my aunt had taken me in. I knew any sort of relationship could never be, but I wished with all my heart that that was not the case.

I met him a few days later on the street outside the apartment complex, where I learned his name, and he mine. He was much better-looking from up close, and I could sense he thought the same of me. I looked him full in the eyes again, and he blushed, confirming my suspicions.

We met several more times, but he always seemed so distant and cold. I should have taken this as a sign that, all personal feelings aside, we could never be, but I continued inexorably on, waiting and wishing for that day when all of my sufferings would inevitably be rewarded in full.

It had been about a month since I had last seen him, and I was reading. Suddenly, from across the room, I heard a distinct tapping on the wall, then silence. And there it was again: tapping, then silence.

I was amazed. I knew that he lived in the apartment next door; could it be…?

My heart struggled with my mind while I returned to my book. Should I return the message? What if it was only my ears playing tricks on me?

An hour later I had decided. Setting my book aside, I walked resolutely over to the opposite wall from where the taps had come, and knocked.

I heard a dull thud as if something had been thrown onto the floor, then a definite knock from the other side of the wall. I quickly responded copying the number and slowness of the taps: one—two—three.

This passing of knocks back and forth continued for quite some time—a few months, if I remember correctly. Each night we engaged in this exhilarating, yet slightly silly, ritual, my heart soaring with love each time I heard the distinct sound of his knuckles against the wall, imagining his doing the same as I faithfully returned the signal.

But then I fell ill. The knocks stopped—the bed to which I had been confined was not close to the cherished wall—sending my spirits to an all-time low, my health with it. As time passed, I realized I would surely die—and with this realization all hope passed from me of ever seeing him again.

My last weeks passed in a blur. There was always someone in my room, watching me in my delirium, hoping, I knew, that I would return to health—but I had long given up on life. Then, with remarkable clarity, I awoke.

The clock was chiming midnight. More people were in my room, watching over me; my aunt was there, and she was crying softly into a handkerchief. In a voice hoarse from lack of use, I asked that my bed be moved to the far wall. I saw the skepticism in the faces around me, but they—thankfully—complied, probably intent on granting an innocent girl's dying wish.

As soon as the bed was returned to the ground, I reached over and knocked with all my remaining strength—and got no answer.

I assumed he was sleeping, so I waited a few moments before knocking again, which was all my failed body would allow—but to no avail.

I died one hour later.

-----

Dampier had finished with his tale. "This is the third visitation," he was saying. "On the first occasion I was too skeptical to do more than verify by natural methods the character of the incident; on the second, I responded to the signal after it had been several times repeated, but without result. To-night's recurrence completes the 'fatal triad'... There is no more to tell."

The stranger looked dumbstruck, but it seemed that he pitied his friend. He rose and said a kindly good night, leaving Dampier alone.

He soon went to bed. I could sense a sort of readiness about him—as if he, too, sensed Death's anxious presence. I remained by his bedside as life left him, ensuring that the last thing he heard was my gentle tapping on the wall next to him before joining me in the infinite black clutches of the Unknown.


End file.
